


Divine Simulacrum

by BoyFuckWonderland



Category: Hotline Miami (Video Games)
Genre: Abuse, Anal Sex, Bondage, Cock & Ball Torture, Handcuffs, Humiliation, Inguinal Penetration, Knifeplay, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Police, Police Brutality, Prison, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Scent Kink, Spit As Lube, Unconventional Penetration, Unreliable Narrator, Verbal Humiliation, briefly implied beardjacket, muffing, the only good cop is a dead cop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:49:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27162074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoyFuckWonderland/pseuds/BoyFuckWonderland
Summary: Pardo thinks he's got Jacket all figured out. The man-thing barely has a functional brain-- hence the masks. Hence the brutality. There's too many thoughts in his head, too many animal sounds. No words. No coherency. Sitting placidly in the court room, playing with a fucking children's toy, staring vacantly ahead. It's all a front, an attempt to mold himself into something more human than animal. Well, it may have worked on everyone else, but it won't work on Pardo. He's a detective! He's the detective who should have caught him. But he didn't, so now he studies him. There are criminals on the street better than him. Better than the Masked Maniac- better even than the Miami Mutilator. He's a detective.
Relationships: Manny Pardo/Jacket (Hotline Miami)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	Divine Simulacrum

**Author's Note:**

> A couple years ago I read about inguinal penetration and became so obsessed with the concept I HAD to write a fic about it. Better late than never! Also, Pardo being a creepy rapist is such a guilty pleasure of mine, I might write more LOL

Pardo wants to have been the one to catch Jacket. Everyone in the precinct knows it, even if he tries his best to hide it. He plays it off cool, but it's hard not to notice his set jaw and white knuckles whenever the hot topic of the Masked Maniac comes up. Hard not to notice how he obsesses about him to a degree that even his colleagues either purposefully try to ignore or go out of their way to deride him. They love to tease, just as much as they can get away with; it was certainly not subtle the day Pardo dyed his hair blonde. No one really likes Pardo and Pardo doesn't really like anyone. He likes power. He likes control. He likes making other people afraid.

Seeing Jacket in court, taping every session, sneering at protestors and threatening them with arrest just to get the vultures away from the proximity of his man. How could one person cause so much destruction? Surely it's because he's not human. He's less than human. An animal. Multiple animals, all shrieking and clawing under the surface of the man-suit they so delicately crafted to parade in public. Unlike Pardo. Pardo is well adjusted. Pardo is smart.

Pardo thinks he's got Jacket all figured out. The man-thing barely has a functional brain-- hence the masks. Hence the brutality. There's too many thoughts in his head, too many animal sounds. No words. No coherency. Sitting placidly in the court room, playing with a fucking children's toy, staring vacantly ahead. It's all a front, an attempt to mold himself into something more human than animal. Well, it may have worked on everyone else, but it won't work on Pardo. He's a detective! He's the detective who should have caught him. But he didn't, so now he studies him. There are criminals on the street better than him. Better than the Masked Maniac- better even than the Miami Mutilator. He's a detective.

It's his job to get to the root of their psychology and prove to the world there is no secret genius, no hidden tragic illness, no higher motivations. Just raw, unadulterated animal stupidity in the face of the law. It was only a stroke of luck that the other cops got to him first. They talk about him like he's a hero, a real American, blonde and strong-jawed and staring vacantly at the wall ahead of him. Too proud to make eye contact- or maybe too stupid. Pardo's jaw clenches tight at the sight on his tv screen, remote in one hand and cock in the other, eyes narrowed as he pauses the tape. By this point it's rubbed raw; tears and static riddle the picture but he doesn't need it to be so crisp anymore, not after he's practically got the court proceedings memorized by now. Not like he needed to memorize much, of course.

People saw the Masked Maniac's actions as either brave and justified, but tragically misguided when he turned his attention to the police; or completely wild, unpredictable, and disturbing. Titillating. Pornographic. Pardo's fist tightened around the base of his dick, and he arches his hips into it thinking about forcing his length into the man's mouth. Thinks about ripping his hair out of his skull. Would it be soft? Or greasy and coarse. Unpleasant to touch. He hopes it is. Everything about the man's visage haunts him, makes his spit taste sour and his dick uncomfortably hard. That night he makes a promise to himself as he cums, splattering the shaky pause screen of the Masked Maniac looking empty and forlorn in profile, refusing to acknowledge the camera- too tough for it, too proud- too stupid; he will taste his flesh, his blood, and prove to himself that the creature before him is nothing more than a stupid dog too dumb to know it's own place.

~

Getting there is easy, getting inside is easier. Every cop worth his salt wants to have a personal interrogation with the man, no strings attached, no favors needed. The room doesn't even have to be supervised. All Pardo has to do is flash his badge, mutter under his breath that he had someone in the building he shot up, and the commiseratingly sad smile, the slap on his shoulder, it all screams the reliable solidarity of his good ol fellow boys in blue. He sneers to himself as he walks down the concrete corridor to Jacket's cell, sweat beading on his brow, drooling down his back, soaking his palms. His jaw is trembling by the time the preparations are completed just for him- an empty 6x6 grey cell, with a steel table bolted to the floor, and the man he'd been angrily lusting over for months, chained to it by the wrists and staring blankly ahead. No, not at the wall, but through Pardo himself. There was nothing in those brown eyes.

Pardo draws a shuddering breath in through his nose, and feels all at once confronted by the whole of human experience, if only for a second, before the overwhelming emotion flutters away in a few palpitated heartbeats. He sits down in the chair provided, across the table, and places his sweaty hands palm down on the table and just. Stares.

He can't help but just stare as he0 absorbs the fragility of the moment, the eons of time that had to have passed to allow this to happen. The nights staring bloodshot in the dark at the TV screen, analyzing every micro-movement that the man-creature before him barely deigned to make. He can't possibly be real, and yet, he's sitting right across from him. He looks completely relaxed. There was chatter amongst the guards on his way down; murmuring about how he must have balls the size of Gibraltar in order to be locked in a room with that freak. How even the guards with the most seniority, even the life-sentences with nothing left to lose, know to steer clear. It makes Pardo's skin tingle, makes him bite his tongue so hard in a remarkable show of restraint to not immediately break his jaw and try to cram his aching dick right down his throat the moment he saw him.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, trembling and sweating and staring unblinking at Jacket until the silence is broken by something unexpected: Jacket moves. He shifts just slightly, parts his lips to exhale, and the slight flash of pink tongue has the same intoxicating allure as the revealed shoulder of a young woman. Pardo stands up suddenly, almost a shock enough to make the man-dog flinch; enough that Pardo tells himself he saw it, though the deepest pit in his brain knows it didn't happen. He's shaking hard now, muscles all tensed too tight, and comes around the table till he's right next to him. Jacket's head is close to his crotch, already so tantalizing, but as much as he wants to take all his frustrations out on the not-human before him, he knows better. Or maybe he doesn't. He can hardly control himself now, breathing hard and leaning down close to his head, down near his ear, close enough that he can smell the sharp sterility of his prison-issued shampoo. Standardized, in bulk. No special treatments, and somehow Pardo is disappointed. He wanted to smell the sweat, the fear. Instead, his scent is... clean. Polished. Insultingly so.

He can feel the flop sweat drenching his own chest beneath his shirt- when he leans forward to lick the shell of Jacket's ear, why can't he taste it? It fills him with a unique sense of rage and entitlement, and he can hardly hear his own voice when he finally speaks, a sharp rasp against the warm cartilage.

“Get. On. The table.”

He feels a sick, sadistic thrill shoot straight to his already hard cock when Jacket stands with only a second's worth of hesitation. Should he be impressed that the dog followed orders, or irritated that he did it without a fight, and ergo, he has no conceivable reason to be irritated in the first place? Was it possible to feel justified in entertaining both emotions? Pardo wasn't sure, and he definitely wasn't philosophically or ethically competent enough to question the morals behind his emotions. He watched as Jacket, hunched half-over by virtue of his hands being chained to the table, manages to awkwardly crawl onto it. As he settles, he almost looks like he's in some sort of meditation, hunkered down, wrists pressed together in front of him almost demurely between his knees, eyes closed, breathing through his open mouth. It's clear he was strong at one point, but months in prison spent entirely on his bed staring dead-eyed, slack-jawed at the wall across from him has given him a strange sort of atrophy. He looks both haggard and young, still fills out his prison jumpsuit well but not nearly as well as some of the other meatheaded freaks that seemed to fill the penitentiary to the brim.

It's clear Jacket was not made to be one of them. Patriotic to the bone, seemingly his only crime being a slave to emotions he clearly doesn't want to showcase now. Well, it's too late to ponder the secret motivations behind any of his actions, as the light bulb in his head has long since burned out. All that's left behind is the fast-withering shell of pathetic manpain that makes Pardo see red, makes him reach with arms outstretched to slam both palms into the man's broad back in a mighty push that forces him down. Doubled over with his chest resting against his knees, arms curled inward, and nose pressed hard against the metal table, Pardo feels a thrill of sick pleasure directly behind his eyes at the speculation that this is perhaps the first time this man will be debased by someone so much stronger, so much handsomer, so much smarter and overall just so much better than him.

“You like hurting people, huh.” He snarls, voice thick with dangerous lust as he shucks off his brown leather jacket, tosses it to the ground as fast as he can to free his hands, patting frantically at his pants till he re-locates the switchblade he “snuck” in. He can hear Jacket's heavy breathing, and feels electricity crackle in the air at the revelation that his actions are starting to rattle him, and yet still he remains quiet. He wants the illusion of being unflappable, but they both know better. He clicks the knife into place, and feels his cock twitch at the sight of the dog visibly tense before him. Perhaps a noise he was well-acquainted with, or maybe this is his first time getting raped at knifepoint? Either scenario is equally mouth-wateringly tantalizing to consider.

“What about getting hurt? Y'ever thought of that?” Pardo says through a tight smile, hardly able to unclench his jaw to form the words. He grabs the thing's shoulder in one hand, and with the other goes right for the neckline of his jumpsuit, cutting away orange fabric and making sure to slice the skin below, barely waiting for the knife to cut through before he tears the rest of the cloth down, down, past his wasit, past his ass, till it's dangling off the edge and clinging to his body by his thighs and bowed-forward position. Pardo sees red, literally, at the sight of blood springing to the surface and soaking into his tank top; the white cloth hugging his muscles tighter than the jumpsuit did, and revealing that not all was lost in the way of Jacket's definition. It inflames him with equal parts lust and indignation and the insatiable urge for conquest. He turns his gaze lower. With the suit in tatters, the unflattering white boxers are all that's left, and despite their purposefully baggy cut, they're practically form-fitting with the way the Masked Maniac is bent forward almost like a prisoner of war.

“C'mon soldier, spread 'em!” Pardo jabs approximately at Jacket's left cheek with the point of the knife-- hard enough to pierce the skin, but not deep enough to actually stab through. He appreciates the stuttered breath that he draws in reaction. There's a pause, a shift, and Pardo isn't satisfied so he pokes him again, has the thought at the back of his mind that he ought to make Jacket squeal like a pig- or at least like the Pig Butcher masquerading with the audacity to attempt to replicate his actions for the big screen.

It should be Pardo up there, sweating under the heat of the rubber mask, glamorous as a movie star. Though he can't complain much, here, all things considered. He watches how Jacket moves, spreading his legs wider, pulling the thin white material taught and tighter against his ass and Pardo's eyes almost boggle completely out of his skull at the sight of the dark pink skin of his inner crack, barely hidden by the underwear. He could probably jab his index finger into the younger man's hole even through the fabric and he could get it at least to the first knuckle without much difficulty. His inhalation is shuddery and tense, and with a motion that borders on kindness, he slices through Jacket's underwear, though that consideration for his comfort is short-lived as he callously pushes him up by his hips. The positioning is awkward and no doubt must be at least uncomfortable to the prone man before him, probably not as flexible as in his military days. He's as spread open as he can get while still chained to the table the way he is; Pardo could have him lay on his back with his legs held spread eagle in the air, but this is more degrading. For all the time he spent studying his regrettably handsome face, he wants Jacket with his face pressed against steel, fucked like the dog he is. 

What shocks the detective the most is the appalling sight of Jacket on full display before him. How many people had seen this before him? Surely the number was in the negatives. Was Pardo his first? He hissed a breath through his teeth, really drinking in the view of Jacket's hole, looking like he was purposefully clenching tight. This of course was followed by the view of his genitals hanging between his strong thighs; his size was nothing to sneeze at, though even that couldn't save Jacket from Pardo's scornful opinion-- it wouldn't matter how big or small he was. He reached out and gently cradled Jacket's heavy balls in his hand, feeling the heat and weight and how they were covered with soft, fuzzy blonde hairs, and gave him a slight squeeze.

Keeping his grip on them firm, he brought his other hand up to his mouth, flooded with saliva already, and coated his index and middle finger with spit. He knew it wouldn't be enough, and didn't really care. If he wanted this to be a pleasant experience he would have brought condoms, lube, champagne, and a handful of rose petals to be strewn across the table while he was at it. He didn't waste any time with the formality, and when he had spent at least a couple seconds with what he considered messing around, he pulled his hand from his face and slapped it down hard on Jacket's ass, laughing callous and low in his throat at the feeling. Christ, even his rear was still more muscle than fat- how tight was he going to be, really? He shuddered at the thought, and without any sort of warning, pushed both dripping-wet fingers into Jacket's hole, as deep as he could manage with one thrust.

The noise that Jacket made, and the effect it had on Pardo's dick, was nearly indescribable. A sharp, high pitched sound; a whine like a dog that got kicked unfairly, and his internal muscles tight clearly as much as he could get. Pardo could barely move his hand, and wasn't sure if he wanted to just yet. The heat and tight around his fingers was intoxicating, and he could hardly imagine something so sweet choking his dick. He dug his fingernails into Jacket's balls, and hissed through his teeth that he needed to relax or else he'd rip them off.

The few seconds between that statement and Jacket's ability to untense was heady, though short-lived. It was almost disappointing that he did what he was told to do so promptly. But he wasn't going to let that stop him from continuing- even God himself couldn't stop Pardo at this point. He curled his fingers, pulled out, shoved back in hard and fast. Felt more than heard the whimper from his prisoner, his heartbeat pouding hard in a small vein pressed somewhere along the side of his middle finger. He repeated his brutal warmup motions a few times, really only trying to loosen Jacket up as a formality more than anything else, and truly couldn't hide his excitement as he shucked his pants down far enough to free his straining, damp erection.

“I want this to hurt, y'know.” He said very matter-of-factly, and sat down on the chair that was previously occupied by Jacket. He originally thought he wanted to fuck him doggy-style, but then he realized... he wanted this to be as humiliating as possible. He wanted Jacket to work for it. So he relaxed on the chair and grabbed Jacket's hips, having the determination and convenient positioning as an advantage over Jacket that he intended to use. Mainly by lowering him down, carefully, off the table till he was almost lowered entirely onto Pardo's lap, feet flat on the ground. For a brief moment, he simply stayed like that, feeling how Jacket's entire body trembled with the exertion of holding himself up and away from the detective, still shackled to the table. He wasted little time savoring the moment, spitting on his hand and pumping his dick twice before pushing the head of it inside past the puffy red rim of Jacket's already-abused hole.

Pardo couldn't help it- and really, in his position, who could? The moment he felt that tight heat encompassing all around him he arched up, and pushed Jacket down with all his might till there was no deeper for his dick to sink. Hips connected to ass, he wrapped both arms around Jacket's waist to ensure there was nowhere he could go, and was absolutely stunned to find the other man's own erection poking his forearms.

“Jesus, kid...” Pardo grunted, using every ounce of willpower not to paint Jacket's insides with his cum just yet. He wasn't some two-pump chump, especially not for a scum-of-the-earth criminal like him, but the weight and mass of him squeezing his cock certainly gave him pause.

“If you think I'm touchin' that thing, you're in for a disappointment.” He snorted, and with small movements, began to rock upwards in slow, almost methodical movements. He closed his eyes and pressed his face to the sticky-sweat-blood of Jacket's back, nose buried against his spine near the cut and breathing in. He'd never felt more alive than before this moment, groaning with euphoria at having his cock buried inside one of the most dangerous criminals of their entire lives. Was he truly the only one to own him like this? To take what was rightfully his? The thought alone elicited a painful shudder and made his balls draw up tight against his body already in preparation to cum.

All the sounds in the world disappeared in favor of the mixture of heavy breathing, grunting, and the soft wet slap of Pardo fucking up into the other man. It was all Jacket could do to ball his hands into fists, squeeze his eyes shut, grind his teeth, and keep his body as relaxed as he could while also still bearing his own weight. No thoughts were in his head, just a cacaphonous static sound and grinding, shrieking, bones creaking against bones and gunfire and heat and orange hair and--

\--and Pardo was reaching around, hand fumbling for his cock, giving it a sudden squeeze before reaching further down, feeling his balls, further down, briefly at his taint, even briefer at the way his hole was stretched around Pardo's dick, then back up again. Feeling for something, almost playing with his sac in a way that made Jacket giggle nervously, a tight and high pitched noise way in the back of his throat almost to his nose, and that earned him a cruel painful squeeze that made the noise turn to a keening animal sound.

“You really wanna get fucked, kid?” Pardo snarled, and with his first two fingers positioned in a V shape, he suddenly pushed, hard, underneath his scrotum into a place that Jacket had no idea even existed. It created a strange, electric sensation that made him jolt hard, back straightened, the brunt of his weight briefly crushing Pardo as he tried, for the first time, to struggle against the sensation. Chains rattling, and little huffy breaths high in Jacket's already-inflated chest. He couldn't breathe much more air than he'd already put in his lungs, but the feeling was so foreign, it was setting off alarm bells in his head.

To Pardo, the reaction was heavenly, if not slightly uncomfortable to have to bear his weight. He grunted, opening his mouth against Jacket's sweaty back and sinking his teeth in, managing to get a good chunk of skin and muscle between his enamel and keeping a solid pressure as he wiggled his fingers, feeling about for the holes he knew were there and he only had to fight for a moment against the extremely tight, small channels. It was as if they opened to him and him only, as both his fingers sank inside at least an inch, pulling the loose skin there taught. It was a disturbing sensation to Jacket, who now was starting to make noises and jerk his upper body like he was about to vomit.

If he did, or would, Pardo figured it would simply enhance the moment. He released his back meat only because his jaw was starting to ache, and refocused his efforts on fucking Jacket's pussy.

“I could cut you open... make it easier to fuck you... I bet you did a lot of that in Hawaii, huh? You sick fuck...” He grunted, curling his fingers upward and stroking the upper part of Jacket's inguinal canal, resuming the movement of his hips and hissing at the friction- all the spit had dried up and he was too occupied to try and apply more.

“Tight bitch like you... everyone here's afraid of you. I ain't afraid of you.” Pardo's stream of consciousness started to pour out as his humiliation of Jacket became more focused on making himself cum. He didn't even try to find Jacket's prostate- it wasn't like he deserved for this to feel good. He just wanted it to happen. It wasn't very long, both their sweaty bodies pressed together, the heat of Jacket's rectum, the added stimulation of his fingers almost stroking himself through the thin wall of flesh between his cock and two main digits... it was all so overwhelming. Finally, of course, capped off by the fact that he was fucking the Masked Maniac in a kind of insane and egotistical sense of conquest. He, Manny Pardo, and only he, had been able to claim him in such a way. The revelation was what pushed him over the edge, and his hips stuttered to a stop deep inside the other man as he orgasmed. He could feel Jacket's cock twitch at the feeling of liquid filling him up, but he didn't give him an inch of stimulation, simply staying rooted there, fingers pushed halfway to the hilt and cock buried in his ass- if Jacket was going to cum, it was from his own hands. Not because 'mercy' or 'dignity' was something Pardo ever gave anyone.

In the aftershock, they stayed like that, Jacket slumped over the table and Pardo slumped over Jacket, both breathing hard; one man spent and the other very pent up. Neither really knew how much time had passed remaining like that, but it didn't last more than two minutes before Pardo's personality and ego returned to him, and he grunted, gruffly removing his hand from Jacket's crotch with the abruptness and cruelty that many had already been well acquainted with. It almost caused Jacket to cry out, but the sound died in his raspy, unused vocal chords, and instead he just shuddered noiselessly against the table.

“Get up.”

He didn't need to be told twice. Without ceremony, Jacket lifted his hips, trembling, feet touching the ground with uncertainty if he could even bear his own body, and Pardo could see his cock, red and straining and dripping from the tip, almost weighed down by the mass of it. He couldn't be more disgusted, and stood up from the chair with a sudden sense of revulsion. Putting himself back together, using part of Jacket's torn underwear to wipe the remaining semen off his dick before tucking it into his pants, he cleared his throat and grabbed Jacket's genitals with an unkind grip.

“I'm gonna be nice and let you keep this, for now, but I'll know if you cum. The moment I find out you do, I'm cutting it all off and fucking you with the pussy you know you oughta been born with.” A cruel squeeze, nails digging into hot flesh, “you got it, kid?”

Jacket could only offer a wheeze and fervent head nod in return, entire body shuddering. With what feeling, Pardo could only guess. He kept the man's shaft in his grip for a few seconds longer, as if to emphasize a point he'd already made abudantly clear, and released his cock with a grunt of disapproval. He adjusted his belt, gave the criminal one last once-over, and left without another word. He'd let the guards clean up his mess; he was the one who was in charge, he could do whatever he wanted. He could come visit Jacket whenever he wanted. He was the only one in the city designated for the hard job of putting Jacket in his place, exactly where he belonged: below Manny's shoe.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in commissioning me more, please send me a private message to @fuck_wonderland on twitter!
> 
> My rates are $0.02/word, so a fic with 1000 words would cost $20. Feel free to reach out!


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